


драконы

by LyonPrinceOfGrado



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Mercenaries, Other, Violence, Vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 18:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15297351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyonPrinceOfGrado/pseuds/LyonPrinceOfGrado
Summary: A short one-shot, filling in what happened regarding Gregor and Nowi between the start of Chapter 8 and before. Read and comment, because I really appreciate criticism :)The name I originally gave the fic was rather... Lackluster, to say the least "Vodka, Dragons and Gregor" sounded good at the time, but I opted for a much simpler title. драконы means Dragons in Russian, and I thought that it fit well.





	драконы

The old tavern was full of well-worn blades, held and treated well by the experienced mercenaries that carried them. They came here on their days off to partake in drink, beer and scotch mostly, though one could find an experience wealthy man with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. It was an average sized establishment, on the outskirts of the Plegian capital but still under the great skull that shielded the capital from the deserts blistering heat. The sandstone it was built from had stood for generations, only needing repairs in time of war with neighbouring Ylisse, which, had happened to be, very often. Three tables occupied what was otherwise open space, and two were occupied. One had a group of men, four mercenaries, a dark mage, two swordsmen and what appeared to be a knight, their commander, playing cards. The other table? It held one of the most famous and experienced sellswords of the land. Gregor.

“Gregor needs the potato drink!” the orange haired man bellowed, interrupting the game of cards on the table next to him. The waiter, of which there were two, one manning the bar and the other waiting the tables, shook his head.

“We have none of this, so called, potato drink, good sir.” He explained, not struggling to comprehend the foreign odd accent Gregor had in his possession.

“Vodka! Silly water! Bitter and strong! Gregor’s lifeblood!” Gregor hollered, the men at the other table receiving the brunt of the intensity of his voice. The waiter shook his head again, to Gregor’s disappointment.

“Vodka is rare in these parts, sir, Regna Ferox is where you want to go if you want that.” The man in common linen clothes explained, pointing him to the cold northern country.

“Aye, Gregor knows, thank you Gregor’s friend.” The mercenary said, thanking the man, even if he had not acquired what he wanted. The waiter bowed to him, a courtesy, and returned to his job. Gregor looked down to the oak table he sat at, staring in the mug of beer he had purchased beforehand, lost in his thoughts.

“What’s the word about tango?” the dark mage asked the other men at his table, quite loudly that even Gregor could hear.

“Hey! Keep it down…” the knight said, beginning to whisper, but Gregor had already heard too much, “Tango was a success, they took the girl from the other men, and are holding her now, for resale.”

“So, we’re going to storm this camp and take the girl?” Gregor overheard from one of the swordsmen, piquing his interest.

 _“Slave camp? Dragon girl?”_ he pondered _, “Gregor doesn’t like slaves being slaves. Gregor doesn’t like this girl being sold.”_

“The deal is forty thousand gold, split nine ways, so four-thousand gold each, with the remainder in being a group payment to the company.”

“The contractors are paying that much? That’s nowhere near enough for a Manakete…”

“We’d need another member to double that price… Double figures in our numbers will hike the price significantly.”

“Then who can we find to join us?” the commander asked. They looked around, Gregor moving his head towards them, feigning confusion. He wanted to know what was up.

_“Bingo is Gregor.”_

“You, loud man, you want to join in on a deal?” the commander asked, raising his voice so Gregor could properly hear.

“Gregor? You want me?” Gregor asked, his wry lips curling into a grin.

“Yes, join us and you’ll get a tenth of the deal. Ten thousand gold.”

“You sure know how to convince Gregor, sir.” The senior mercenary said, playing along with them.

“Then let’s get going.”

The covered streets of Plegia gave way to desert, the blistering heat was something Gregor wasn’t used to just yet, his age didn’t help either. He grabbed the small flask attached to his right hip and removed the lid, the smell of the strong liquid wafting into his, and the mans behind him, nose. He took a swig of the beverage, some dripping down his left cheek as he removed his lips from the mouthpiece. The drink was medicinal, something Gregor had concocted through meticulous trial and error. And it worked.

“What on earth is that putrid stench?” asked the man behind him, holding his nose with his left hand in revulsion.

“Tis Gregor drink,” the orange haired man replied, “The body and soul it helps!”

“Smells like someone took a shit in there,” he said, “I think you smell better.”

“Next you be saying Gregor be smelling like teen spirit,” Gregor stated, earning a small chuckle from the man behind him.

“You mean odour? They smell better than that!” the mercenary shouted.

“Gregor!” the knight at the front shouted, interrupting their conversation, “We’re almost there, you know what to do?” Gregor looked at him, the back of his head really, and shook his head.

“Gregor knows no plan,” the sword-for-hire admitted, “Tell Gregor.”

“There’s a slave camp up ahead, they sell off captives they capture to the highest bidder, the auction is in two days, but the bidding gets intense,” the armoured man explained, “Our contractor wants this Manakete, a female one at that, they have captured, at all costs, and has hired us to to… Acquire her.”

“So Gregor be killing slavers?” Gregor asked, “Old man’s bones work fine still, and just is cause.”

“Good, I’m glad to have you with us, we’re almost there,” he said, “See that pavilion and all that crap around it? That’s their camp.”

“Aye.” The men and Gregor answered.

“Captain Reginald, take four men, I’ll take the others,” he said, motioning to the dark mage, “We’ll surround them. Go around the desert and stick your swords up their arses!”

Captain Reginald, a young mercenary with slick grey hair, silently motioned the older mercenary to follow him. Gregor did, ducking into the desert; hiding by the sand hills that surrounded the camps. The sand had a hard time staying out of Gregor’s shoes, but he didn’t mind, he didn’t mean to stay in Plegia for very long after this job. Needed some potato drink.

“We’re here, stay low, until you hear the commanders horn.” Reginald whispered.

The horn came, sounding like an older man’s flatulence after a bit too many beans, the men drew their weapons, steel blades, spears and axes, and charged headlong into the camp. Gregor ran behind them, retrieving his blade from the leather scabbard it occupied. Twenty slavers occupied the camp, from Gregor’s quick counting, and he chose three lightly armoured men on the east of the camp. They were readying for the battle, but still had no weapons.

“Gregor SMASH!” he shouted, veering off into the right, finding the blade he had piercing the flesh of three men in almost a second, preventing them from continuing their armament, and their life. He moved his eyes to his next target, a heavily armoured man carrying a large pike in his left hand and a large shield in the other, and made his move. The man raised his pike, thrusting into the air towards Gregor. The elder man dodged the thrust, throwing himself to the left, and going in for the kill. The knight’s shield prevented him, however, from landing the blow causing Gregor to lunge back.

“Gregor will rend flesh from bone and have lunch after he does!” the orange haired man shouted at his foe. The man was noticeably unfazed, but Gregor, after much experience in the trade of scaring men, saw the effects of his terror; the man was sweating, drips of liquid shaping on his forehead, his left arm carrying the lighter pike faltered for a second or two and, most importantly, Gregor could smell the shit in his pants from a mile away. He lunged forward, kicking up sand into the man’s eye, darting to the side of his foe to plant his blade right into his exposed armpit.

“Good job Gregor!” Reginald shouted, “At least you’re earning your share.” Gregor nodded, looking around for a foe to defeat. None of the ten men in the group had been slain, but they still needed to press their small advantage over their dwindling numbers. Of twenty men, only six remained, and they were in a group. Gregor moved to re-join with the remaining six men, only to be rushed by a man in hiding, a face-wrap covering his face and a cloak covering the rest of him. The shrouded man’s dagger moved as fast as he did, a lightning quick pace forcing Gregor to move to the defensive. It didn’t work however. The man thrust his dagger into him, lodging it in Gregor’s right hip.

“Got you,” The assassin said, smirking, but then scrunching up his nose, “Oh… God what’s that smell?”

“You need to be thinking again.” Gregor said, chuckling, raising his blade to the man’s unprotected chest, and finishing with a hearty chuckle, he thrust it forward, impaling the man’s torso. Blood began bubbling from his throat. Gregor removed his blood-spattered blade from the man, and pushed him to the ground.

“Man on floor hit Gregor’s flask! Gregor needs to find new flask at store!” he shouted to the dead man. Gregor turned around, the rest of his companions mopping up the remaining enemy. The commander was skilled with a blade, Gregor thought, perhaps matching him, and Reginald had a knack for dark magic he hadn’t seen before. He ran over to them, clasping the broken flask with his thumb so the contents did not spill out.

“Aye lads, go find that girl so we get paid!” the commander shouted, “Gregor, go with Reginald!”

The mercenary nodded, joining the scantily clad mage, leaving the other men to their own investigations. There were three large cages around the camp, covered with tarps, and several small ones in-between. They had reached the middle of a few of the cages, arranged in a circle, and began searching.

“Maybe this one?” Reginald said as he lifted the tarp covering the cage he had chosen, “Err… Nope.”

Gregor hadn’t seen the whole of it, but from what he saw wasn’t pretty. White bone. Rotting flesh. They had left someone in there for a while, and in the desert there’s nothing to eat the remains. Gregor looked down at his cage, the metal rusting from exposure to the elements, and grabbed the dusty tarp over it. He pulled it away. The contents of the cage were simple, but elegant. A girl, clad in something far too inappropriate for her apparent age, with hair of yellow, and clothes of green.

 _”It be a wee one,”_ he thought, _“Gregor won’t let her be slave.”_

“Hey, wee one,” he said, kneeling down to the cage, the girl now looking up at him, “Name is Gregor, I am friend.”

“NO!” she shouted, “GO AWAY!” Gregor’s frown began showing, the girl’s rejection for his help had disheartened him.

“Get her out of there!” Reginald shouted, “And bind her.” Gregor turned to look at the dark mage, his mind thinking of a way to go about it. A plan. Something to get the girl out unharmed.

“Gregor?” Reginald spoke, tapping his foot.

“Gregor thinks someone needs much of the potato drink!” he replied, grabbing his flask.

“What?” Reginald asked, as the man in front of him used his blade to slice open his small bottle, “What are you… OH GOD YOU DASTARD!” he screamed, as Gregor threw the remains of the metal flask at him, liquid in tow, straight into his eyes.

“Gregor thinks you need to die now.” He said, rushing in with his blade.

“ELFIRE!” the dark mage shouted, raising his hand to cast his spell.

Nothing came. He fumbled around to find his tome, and he eventually did. Covered with Gregor’s potato drink. And Reginald’s blood. Gregor’s steel had met the man’s hand, slicing it clean off.

“AAAAAH!”

“Rest in many pieces’ fiend.” Gregor muttered, piercing the man with his weapon, the screams of the magician reverberating throughout the camp, into the ears of his former companions and contractors and the captives inside.

“W-why’d you do that?” the small child asked, wide eyed.

“Gregor doesn’t like slavers.” The orange haired warrior replied, grinning.

“You!” shouted the commander as he ran down to them, causing Gregor to turn to face them, followed by the rest of his men, “You’re going to die now old fool.” The armoured man threated, drawing the bloodied longsword from his scabbard and gripping it in-between his hands.

“Gregor would like to see you try.” Gregor dared. The men surrounding the commander lunged forwards, spears of steel coming at him first, which Gregor parried away with the tip of his blade. He rushed forwards, bashing the men with his arm, using his strength and experience to slice deep into them with a horizontal motion, breaking their ribcages, blood spewing forth like the water at the mouth of a river. Gregor rushed forward, parrying the axeman’s hatchet in front of him. His fist landed right in the man’s gut, as his dragged his blade across his throat. The men’s bodies landing on the ground caused sand to rise up, which Gregor used to his advantage, stirring up more dust. Gregor moved with the storm, hidden from view, towards the remaining five men.

“Dammit!” the commander shouted, “I can’t see him!”

“Gregor strike with force of many men!” the orange shouted as the sand hit them with full force. He took down two men with one swing, eliminating the threat they posed. One man thrusted his lance forward, to no avail, with Gregor slicing the tip of it off by the wooden handle, before he put his sword into the man’s eye.

“GREGOR I WILL END YOU!” the commander shouted in frustration, swinging his blade like a madman, hitting the only companion he had left with his own blade.

“Gregor thinks you need to be calming yourself before you die,” Gregor retorted. He moved in, grabbing the man by the collar and lifting him up. “Gregor says goodbye to you.”

“You DASTARD!” he shouted, but his angry voice quickly turned into a scream as his body was pierced by Gregor’s blade. His body and throat eventually softened, and Gregor withdrew his blade from his body. He  landed on the ground with a thud, more dust coming up, the sand sticking to his body.

“Gregor never liked you,” He muttered to the dead man, as he turned around to look for the Manakete girl, “Wee one? Gregor wonders if you are alright?”

No answer came. Gregor made his way back to the cage, which was empty. He looked around, only to see the girl running north. Gregor made up his mind in a split second, running after her.

“HEY! GREGOR WANTS TO BE HELPING YOU!” he shouted, as he ran after her.

“NO LEAVE ME ALONE YOU BALDING ORANGE!” she yelled as he gained on her. He finally caught up, after a little bit of running, but as he did she did a one-eighty degree turn and threw her fist right into his groin.

“GREGOR HURTS!” he shouted, falling to his knees, rather dramatically from the pain.

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE SMELLY!” she shouted, but as she looked behind him she saw something nobody wanted to see. Gregor turned his head, in his vision were Grimleal, followers of the Fell Dragon Grima. Gregor, conquering his inflamed groin, pushed himself onto his feet, and grabbed the girl by the hand.

“We do the running now little one! And don’t hit Gregor in the happy sack no more!”


End file.
